


And Lo, I Was a Wolf Upon the Moor

by The_trash_cannot



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Werewolf - Eugene Field
Genre: Beren kills everyone else, Body Horror, Cryptozoology, F/M, Halloween, I just thought this would be cool, Luthien kills Beren, The Werewolf but Tolkein, These stories are really similar okay?, au-ish, old england
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_trash_cannot/pseuds/The_trash_cannot
Summary: In the quest for the Silmaril, Beren takes the guise of the werewolf Draugluin. But what if that form had come from somewhere deeper inside Beren?The Werewolf by Eugene field, but the characters are silmarillion characters.





	And Lo, I Was a Wolf Upon the Moor

**Author's Note:**

> The characters/story aren't mine but the mistake of combining them definitely is.

In the reign of Elu Thingol there dwelt in Doriath a maiden named Luthien, who was beloved of all, both for her goodness and for her beauty. But, though many a youth came wooing her, she loved Beren only, and to him she had promised herself in marriage.

Among the other youth of whom Luthien was beloved was Daeron, and he was angered that she showed favor to Beren, so that one day Daeron said to Beren: "Is it right that old Bëor should come from his grave and have Luthien to wife?" Then he added, "Good sir, why do you turn so white when I speak your grandsire's name?"

Then Beren asked, "What know you of Bëor that you taunt me? What memory of him should vex me now?"

"We know and we know," retorted Daeron. "There are some tales told us by our grandmas we have not forgotten."

So ever after that Daeron's words and bitter smile haunted Beren by day and night.

Beren's grandsire, Bëor the Edain, had been a man of cruel violence. The legend said that a curse rested upon him, and that at certain times he was possessed by an evil spirit that wreaked its fury on mankind. But Bëor had been dead full many years, and there was naught to mind the world of him save the legend and a cunning-wrought spear which he had from Felagund, the elf. This spear was such a weapon that it never lost its brightness, nor had its point been blunted. It hung in Beren's chamber, and it was the marvel among weapons of that time.

Luthien knew that Daeron loved her, but she did not know of the bitter words which Daeron had spoken to Beren. Her love for Beren was perfect in its trust and gentleness. But Daeron had hit the truth: the curse of old  Bëor  was upon Beren— slumbering a century, it had awakened in the blood of the grandson, and Beren knew the curse that was upon him, and it was this that seemed to stand between him and Luthien. But love is stronger than all else, and Beren loved.

Beren did not tell Luthien of the curse that was upon him, for he feared that she would not love him if she knew. Whenever he felt the fire of the curse burning in his veins he would say to her, "Tomorrow I hunt the wild boar in the outermost forest," or, "Next week I go stag-stalking among the distant northern hills." So it was that he ever made good excuse for his absence, and Luthien thought no evil things, for she was trustful; and though he went many times away and was long gone, Luthien suspected no wrong. So none beheld Beren when the curse was upon him in its violence.

Daeron alone thought of evil things. "It is strange," he said, "that sometimes this gallant lover should quit our company and go where none know. In time it will be well to have an eye on old Bëor's grandson."

Beren knew that Daeron watched him zealously and he was tormented by a constant fear that Daeron would discover the curse that was on him; but what gave him greater anguish was the fear that perhaps at some moment when he was in Luthien's presence, the curse would seize upon him and cause him to do great evil unto her, by which she would be destroyed or her love for him would be undone forever. So Beren lived in terror, feeling that his love was hopeless, yet knowing not how to combat it.

Now, it befell in those times that the country was ravaged of a werewolf, a creature that was feared by all men however valorous. This werewolf was by day a man, but by night a wolf given to ravage and slaughter, and having an enchanted life against which no human or elven weapon could strike true. Wherever he went he attacked and devoured men, spreading terror and desolation, and the dream-readers said that the earth would not be freed from the werewolf until some man offered himself a voluntary sacrifice to the monster's rage.

Now, although Beren was known far and wide as a mighty huntsman, he had never set forth to hunt the werewolf, and, strange enough, the werewolf never ravaged the domain while Beren was. At which Daeron marvelled much, and oftentimes he said: "Our Beren is a wondrous huntsman. Who is a match for him in stalking the timid doe and in crippling the fleeing boar? But how well does he time his absence from the haunts of the werewolf. Such valor has our young Bëor."

Those words brought to Beren his heart flamed with anger, but he made no answer, lest he betray the truth he feared.

It happened that about that time that Luthien said to Beren, "Will you go with me tomorrow evening to the feast in the sacred grove?"

"That I cannot do," answered Beren. "I am summoned to Himlad on a mission of which I shall sometime tell you. And I pray, on your love for me, go not to the feast in the sacred grove without me."

"Why do you say this?" cried Luthien. "Shall I not go to the feast of Elbereth? My father would be sore displeased if I were not there with the other maidens. It would be a great pity that I should spite him thus."

"But do not, I beg you," Beren implored. "Go not to the feast of Elbereth in the sacred grove! As you would love me, go not — see, on my two knees I ask it!"

"How pale you are," said Luthien, "and trembling."

"Go not to the sacred grove tomorrow night," he begged.

Luthien marvelled at his acts and at his speech. Then, for the first time, she thought him to be jealous — whereat she secretly rejoiced.

"Ah," she said, "you doubt my love," but when she saw a look of pain come over his face she added — as if she repented of the words she had spoken — "or do you fear the werewolf?"

Then Beren answered, fixing his eyes on hers, "It is the werewolf that I fear."

"Why do you look at me so strangely, Beren?" cried Luthien. "By the cruel light in your eyes one might almost take you to be the werewolf!"

"Come here, sit beside me," said Beren tremblingly "and I will tell you why I fear to have you go to the feast of Elbereth tomorrow evening. Hear what I dreamed last night. I dreamed I was the werewolf — do not shudder, dear love, for it was only a dream.

"A grizzled old man stood at my bedside and strove to pluck my soul from my breast.

"'What are you doing?' I cried.

"Your soul is mine,' he said, 'you shall live out my curse. Give me your soul — hold back your hands — give me your soul, I say.'

"'Your curse shall not be upon me,' I cried. 'What have I done that your curse should rest upon me? You shall not have my soul.'

"'For my offence you will suffer, and in my curse you will endure hell — it is so decreed.'

"So spoke the old man, and he arose with me, and he prevailed against me, and he plucked my soul from my breast, and he said, 'Go, search and kill' — and — and lo, I was a wolf upon the moor.

"The dry grass crackled beneath my tread. The darkness of the night was heavy and it oppressed me. Strange horrors tortured my soul, and it groaned and groaned, jailed in that wolfish body. The wind whispered to me; with its myriad of voices it spoke to me and said, 'Go, search and kill.' And above these voices sounded the hideous laughter of an old man. I fled the moor — to where I knew not, nor did I know what motive pushed me on.

"I came to a river and I plunged in. A burning thirst consumed me, and I lapped the waters of the river — they were waves of flame, and they flashed around me and hissed, and what they said was, 'Go, search and kill,' and I heard the old man's laughter again.

"A forest lay before me with its gloomy thickets and its sombre shadows — with its ravens, its vampires, its serprents, its reptiles, and all its hideous brood of night. I darted among its thorns and crouched amid the leaves, the nettles, and the brambles. The owls hooted at me and the thorns pierced my flesh. 'Go, search and kill,' said everything. The hares sprang from my pathway; the other beasts ran bellowing away; every form of life shrieked in my ears — the curse was on me — I was the werewolf.

"On, on I went with the fleetness of the wind, and my soul groaned in its wolfish prison, and the winds and the waters and the trees bade me, 'Go, search and kill, you accursed brute; go, search and kill.'

"Nowhere was there pity for the wolf; what mercy, thus, should I, the werewolf, show? The curse was on me and it filled me with hunger and a thirst for blood. Skulking on my way within myself I cried, 'Let me have blood, oh, let me have human blood, that this wrath may be appeased, that this curse may be removed.'

"At last I came to the sacred grove. Sombre loomed the poplars, and the oaks frowned upon me. Before me stood an old man — it was he, grizzled and taunting, whose curse I bore. He feared me not. All other living things fled before me, but the old man feared me not. A maiden stood beside him. She did not see me, for she was blind.

"'Kill, kill,' cried the old man, and he pointed at the girl beside him.

"Hell raged within me — the curse impelled me — I sprang at her throat. I heard the old man's laughter once more, and then — then I awoke, trembling, cold, horrified."

Scarce was this dream told when Daeron strode their way.

"Now, by the Lady of the Stars," he said, "I think I have never seen a sorrier pair."

Then Luthien told him of Beren's going away and how that Beren had told her not to go to the feast of Elbereth in the sacred grove.

"These fears are childish," cried Daeron boastfully. "And if you allow it, sweet lady, I will accompany you to the feast, and a score of my soldiers with their good yew-bows and honest spears, they shall attend me. There is no werewolf, I tell you, will take chance with us."

At that, Luthien laughed merrily, and Beren said: "It is well; you shall go to the sacred grove, and may my love and the Valar's grace ward all evil."

Then Beren went to his abode, and he took old Bëor's spear back to Luthien, and he gave it into her two hands, saying, "Take this spear with you to the feast tomorrow night. It is old Bëor's spear, possessing mighty virtue and marvellous."

And Beren took Luthien to his heart and blessed her, and he kissed her upon her brow and upon her lips, saying, "Farewell, oh, my beloved. How will you love me when you know my sacrifice. Farewell, farewell, forever, oh, my most beloved."

So Beren went his way, and Luthien was lost in her wonderings.

On the next night Luthien came to the sacred grove where the feast was spread, and she bore old Bëor's spear with her in her girdle. Daeron attended her, and a score of soldiers were with him. In the grove there was great merriment, and with singing and dancing and games did the honest folk celebrate the feast of the fair Elbereth.

But suddenly a mighty tumult arose, and there were cries of "The werewolf!" "The werewolf!" Terror seized upon all — stout hearts were frozen with fear. Out from the forest rushed the werewolf, mad with anger, bellowing hoarsely, gnashing his fangs and tossing here and there the yellow foam from his snapping jaws. He sought Luthien straight, as if an evil power drew him to the spot where she stood. But Luthien was not afraid; like a marble statue she stood and saw the werewolf's coming. The soldiers, dropping their torches and casting aside their bows, had fled; Daeron alone remained there to battle the monster.

At the approaching wolf he hurled his heavy lance, but as it struck the werewolf's bristling back the weapon splintered to pieces.

Then the werewolf, fixing his eyes upon Luthien, skulked for a moment in the shadow of the yews and thinking then of Beren's words, Luthien plucked old Bëor's spear from her girdle, raised it on high, and with the strength of despair sent it hurtling through the air.

The werewolf saw the shining weapon, and a cry burst from his gaping throat — a cry of human agony. And Luthien saw in the werewolf's eyes the eyes of someone she had seen and known, but it was for only an instant, and then the eyes were no longer human, but wolfish in their ferocity.

A supernatural force seemed to speed the spear in its flight. With fearful precision the weapon buried itself by half its length in the werewolf's shaggy breast just above the heart, and then, with a monstrous sigh — as if he yielded up his life without regret — the werewolf fell dead in the shadow of the yews.

Then, ah, then in very truth there was great joy, and loud were the acclaims, while, beautiful in her trembling pallor, Luthien was led unto her home, where the people set about to give great feast to do her homage, for the werewolf was dead, and she it was that had slain him.

But Luthien cried out: "Go, search for Beren — go, bring him to me. I will not eat, nor sleep till he is found."

"Good my lady," said Daeron, "how can that be, since he has gone to Himlad?"

"I care not where he is," she cried. "My heart stands still until I look into his eyes again."

"Surely he has not gone to Himlad" spoke Mablung. "This very evening I saw him enter his home."

They hastened there — a vast company. His chamber door was barred.

"Beren, Beren, come forth!" they cried, as they beat upon the door, but no answer came to their calls and knockings. Afraid, they battered down the door, and when it fell they saw that Beren lay upon his bed.

"He sleeps," said one. "See, he holds a portrait in his hand — and it is her portrait. How fair he is and how tranquilly he sleeps."

But no, Beren was not asleep. His face was calm and beautiful, as if he dreamed of his beloved, but his raiment was red with the blood that streamed from a wound in his breast — a gaping, ghastly spear wound just above his heart.


End file.
